Dirty Rich One Night Stand

by Jones, Lisa Renee

  “None. Though she was the one who texted me while we were asleep. She wants to talk.”

  “Are you going to talk to her?”

  “I’ll talk to her, but I’m not rehiring her. I’ll start looking for a new one to deal with my option when the trial is over.”

  “How do options work?”

  “I signed a contract and they optioned my next true crime novel. They get first right of refusal. But I know the terms. I’m not legally obligated to accept the deal with Dan. I am legally obligated to present a proposal for my own book, though they can decline, because I turned down the partnership with Dan. But that’s fine. Once they pass, and I get another agent, I can go to another publisher.”

  “A lot of people would have taken the deal, Cat.”

  “And I have my mother to thank for leaving me my apartment and a trust fund I’ll inherit at thirty-five. I’m not in a position where I have to do what I don’t want to do.”

  “I didn’t know about the trust,” he says.

  “I don’t talk about it. It’s hard to look forward to money you get because a parent died.”

  “How did she die?”

  “She had untreated high blood pressure that triggered a massive stroke.”

  “That’s rough.”

  “It was hard. She wasn’t all that happy. My father treated her like crap. She and I fought a lot because I wanted her to get out, or at least force him to do right by her.”

  “I understand. My parents have struggles. At times, I think they’d be better off apart.”

  “If it weren’t from watching the Walker couples, I’m not sure I’d even believe marriage can work,” I admit. “But they don’t seem like normal human beings.”

  “And what am I, Cat?” he asks, studying me, watching me for a reaction.

  What is he? It’s a complicated question that I answer as simply as possible. “Not an asshole anymore.”

  “I’ll take that,” he says. “For now.” He moves on. “Didn’t you tell me your brother came by? I got the impression you weren’t on good terms.”

  “We haven’t been but the whole visit was odd. He wants something. He actually asked about you.”

  His brow furrows. “What about me?”

  “He just asked if I would recommend you as the best of the best. Or something along those lines. I said yes and he dropped the topic.”

  “Does he know about us?”

  “No. I think it was because of the trial. You’re on everyone’s radar. And apparently, he actually reads my column, which highlights your trial skills.”

  “Which brother?”

  “Gabe. He’s the second oldest and he works for my father’s firm. Oh, and since we’re talking about my column. I think I should save my ‘who done it’ angle in my column for later in the week, right before Kelli’s testimony. If you agree, I’ll reframe the pages I’ve written for tomorrow, which I need to do soon.”

  “I agree,” he says, his eyes narrowing on me. “You’re not worried about journalistic integrity by colluding with the defense?”

  “You’re not worried about corrupting a journalist?”

  “I’m counting on it, sweetheart,” he says, his eyes filling with mischief. “How am I doing?”

  “I’ll let you know,” I say, but the truth is, he’s corrupted everything I thought I knew about what I wanted in a man, and made it all about him.

  Hours later, Reese and I walk into his apartment, and he carries his bag and mine into his bedroom. “I’ll put these in the closet,” he says. I join him and he motions around the room. “Pick a section and make it yours.”

  My stomach flutters, and I’m suddenly overwhelmed with how fast we are going. “Reese—”

  He’s kissing me before I ever finish that sentence. “I plan for you to be here often. Claim your space. I’ll share everything but you, Cat.” And with that loaded comment, his phone starts ringing and he snags it from his pocket. “Blake,” he says, kissing me. “Save that thought. I want to hear it,” he adds before answering the call.

  He listens a minute and says, “Let me dig out my files. I’ll call you back.” He ends the connection and looks at me. “Nelson’s secretary said she’d talk to him, but she’s with her mother today and doesn’t want to upset her any more than this trial has already.”

  “Haven’t you already talked to her?”

  “Yes, but I talked about Nelson. Blake and his wife are going to find out what she knows about Kelli. But Blake is asking for some information I have in my files. I’m going to go look it up for him.” He cups my face and kisses me. “I’m glad you’re here, Cat.” He turns and leaves the closet, and I stare after him with that stupid ball of unnamed emotion tightening in my chest.

  I rotate and scan his closet, deciding on a spot to hang the items I brought with me. I consider leaving the rest of my things in the suitcase, but decide that means leaving it out and in the way. I open his drawers and pick a couple of spots to place my things. I empty out his bag and mine completely and store them. And for a moment, I simply stare at my dresses next to Reese’s suits and have no thoughts. I just have feelings. So many feelings I can’t even name. I don’t want to name them. It’s too soon. I grab the toiletries and head to the bathroom. I place my items at one of the two sinks, hoping it’s not the one Reese uses. I’m just finishing when my neck prickles and I turn to find Reese in the doorway, one of his broad shoulders leaning on the frame. “Did you ever live with Mitch, Cat?”

  “No. I’ve never lived with anyone. Have you?”

  “Never even considered it,” he says.

  “Not even with—”

  “Karen was her name. And no. I was focused on my work, and to be completely honest, her living with me felt like it would be a distraction.”

  “And what am I?”

  He studies me for several moments, his expression indiscernible. “Come here,” he orders softly.

  I think about that command, not because it’s a command, but because it doesn’t bother me as it would with anyone else. I walk to him and he takes my hand, lacing our fingers together and leading me out of the bathroom to the chair in front of the windows. We sit down and he pulls me under his arm, and I rest on his shoulder, as the sun splashes the sky with rainbow colors as it disappears at the horizon. “Ask me again,” he says softly.

  I don’t ask what he means. I know. “What am I?”

  He looks over at me. “The only person I’ve ever watched a sunset with and had it matter.”

  Those words alone might not mean more than a seduction, but I don’t miss the relevance of him saying them right here, in his room, in this chair, after asking me to stay with him. So when he asks, “What am I, Cat?” I shift and climb on top of his lap, straddling him, my hands on his face. “Someone who matters,” I reply, pressing my lips to his.

  He cups my head and kisses me. “Ask me again.”

  “Who am I?”

  “Mine,” he says. “You just don’t know it yet.”

  The next morning is a morning of revelations.

  I wake up in Reese’s bed, with his arms wrapped around me. We’re spooning. That’s revelation number one: I’m spooning with Reese Summer, formerly known as Mr. Arrogant Asshole, commonly known as Mr. Hotness.

  “Morning, sweetheart,” he says, clearly aware that I’m awake. I’m also naked, and he’s naked, and when he rolls me over and settles between my legs, kissing a path down my belly until one of my legs is over his shoulder, I have revelation number two: Sleepovers are underrated, especially since I shatter into complete, utter bliss. When Reese carries me to the shower, where we then have hot sex against the shower wall, revelation number three is a big one for me: I decide my dislike of mornings, which has been with me most of my life, has been cured.

  Once we’re out of the shower, both of us wrapped in towels, we each claim a sink and I try to focus on my hair and makeup, but he’s shaving, and I’m kind of obsessed with watching. He catches me and winks. Revelation n
umber four: While I’ve never really liked a wink from a man, I like it when Reese winks at me, which clearly proves that the source of a wink matters more than I once thought. Namely, that it’s delivered by Reese Summer.

  Revelation number five: Reese has a lucky suit, a gray power suit with a matching gray silk tie, a detail I learn when he asks me to pick out a suit and tie for him, and I choose the lucky suit. “That one is for closing arguments,” he says. “Pick any other.”

  I grab a blue pinstriped suit and a blue tie that matches the stripe. “Why is the gray one lucky?” I ask as I pull a black jacket over my long-sleeved turtleneck, that I’ve matched with my flared skirt.

  “I won my first jury verdict in it,” he says. “And if I’m really lucky, as I was that day, the verdict is the same day as my closing.”

  I step into a pair of black stiletto heels and when he’s fully dressed, except for his jacket, I knot his tie. “You’re skilled at this,” he says. “Whose tie have you been attending to?”

  “Three brothers,” I say. “One of which, Gabe—the one who stopped by my place—still can’t tie a tie. I used to pre-knot them for him.”

  He laughs. “I had a friend in law school like that. I couldn’t teach him. He bought a machine to do it for him. The guy could debate the hell out of you in the classroom, and he’s a damn good attorney now, but a tie brought him to his knees.”

  I pat his tie. “All done.” I step back and watch him shrug into his jacket. “You need another lucky suit. I think you should actually buy a suit for every trial to be ‘the’ suit.”

  “Why is that?” he asks, sticking a tie pin into place.

  “Because then you can see your successes line your closet, and you know why I think that’s important.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you’re not lucky. You’re good. You don’t need a suit for luck at all.”

  He snags my hip and walks me to him. “Maybe I should make you my lucky charm.”

  “You’d have to give up the suit then.”

  “I’ll take you over the suit any day, sweetheart.”

  I’m still smiling over that comment when we head to the kitchen and grab a cup of coffee. After which, I open my MacBook and read my new column while Reese answers emails. “Are you happy with it?” Reese asks, closing his computer.

  “I am,” I say. “Are you?”

  “You’re the one who counts.”

  “I wanted you to read it last night before I sent it in.”

  “And I told you, I don’t want to influence your writing.” He sticks his MacBook in his briefcase and gives me his full attention. “Read me your closing statement.”

  I like that he wants to hear it. I like that he doesn’t want to influence me. The problem is that he didn’t and I’m not sure I want to read it to him. “Tonight,” I say. “I’ll read it to you tonight.”

  “I don’t want to know what you wrote, do I?”

  “I don’t want to influence you.”

  “When have you ever held your tongue with me?”

  “The morning before you walk into court. Reading it to you last night was different than reading it to you ten minutes before we have to leave for court.”

  “Cat,” he prods. “Read me the closing. Influence the fuck out of me. If I need to hear what you wrote, I need to hear it.”

  I inhale and breathe out. “All right.” I start reading: When a prosecutor spends all of three days presenting his case in a trial this massive, you have to ask: What is he afraid of? Why not call character assassins to the stand? Why not call the investigators to the stand, and how did they end up on the witness list for the defense, not the prosecution? Why not spend days or weeks with medical experts on the stand? I’m baffled and have only two conclusions I can draw: Either the prosecutor charged rashly, and planned to build a case later, one that simply didn’t exist, or he has a brilliant plan, perhaps a trap set for the defense, that has yet to be revealed. Until then, —Cat. I look at Reese. “Well?”

  “A trap,” he says. “Why the hell would you let me walk into court and not bring that to my attention?”

  “It was a random thought right before I hit send. I mean, what trap could he really have set?”

  “One of the witnesses on my list is going to burn me. Maybe one of the investigators I’m calling today. And that burn will be deeper because I called them, not the prosecution. I’ll look ill-prepared.”

  “You said it yourself. They have signed statements. Don’t back down.”

  He taps his finger on the island. “You’ve validated my plan. Short and effective. I’m not calling anyone I don’t have to call.”

  “See why I didn’t want to tell you this morning?”

  “I don’t rattle, Cat. If you have an opinion, share it.”

  “I will. I promise.”

  “Good.” He glances at his watch. “If we go now, we have time to stop at the coffee shop.”

  “Let’s not. I saw Dan there. You don’t need that kind of distraction before the trial.”

  “I won’t be distracted, sweetheart, but I have a feeling he will be, and after your closing, that won’t break my heart. I vote for coffee.”

  “You’re looking for trouble,” I accuse.

  “That’s the name of the game during a trial.”

  “We can get coffee but not there. Pick another place.” I grab my briefcase, stuff my purse inside with my MacBook, and head for the door.

  Reese joins me, but he doesn’t reach for the door. “Let’s get coffee at our place, Cat.”

  “Fine, but let’s set some groundwork. The days you are heading up a high-profile trial, or really any trial, you will get your way eighty percent of the time. The days you are not, I get my way eighty percent of the time.”

  “I can live with that. Do you need a coat? Do you have one with you?”

  “I brought one, but I don’t want to deal with it in court. I’ll be fine. I’m ready.”

  He doesn’t move. He reaches in his pocket and pulls out a key. “For you.”

  My lips part. “What is that?”

  “You’re staying here,” he says, taking my hand and closing it around the key. “You should have a way to come and go.”

  “Reese—”

  He leans in and kisses me. “It’s yours, Cat.” He brushes hair from my face. “And don’t go getting spooked on me.”

  “I’m not. I’m just—surprised.”

  “Then you must not get it yet.”

  “Get what?”

  “I play for keeps, sweetheart. And I’m keeping you.” He motions to the door. “Come on. Let’s go win a trial.”

  He says those words like we’re in this together, and we are. I’m in this with him. I’m holding his key in my hand. He opens the door and we step into the hallway. While he locks up, I stick the key in the zipper pocket of my briefcase and we head to the elevator. Once we’re inside, both our phones buzz with a text. He laughs at his and shows it to me.

  I read it: Don’t be a loser, pretty boy. No one likes a loser.

  I arch a brow at him. “My sister,” he says.

  “She’s brutal, but funny,” I comment.

  “Yes, she is.” He sends her a quick message, and I show him my text message that reads: We need to talk. I’ve talked to the publisher on your behalf because I care how this ends for you.

  “Your agent,” he says.

  “My ex-agent.”

  The elevator opens, and we start our walk toward the exit. “Call her while we walk.”

  “I’ll call her tonight. You need to focus on you and the trial, not my agent drama.”

  “Cat. This is your career.”

  “This trial is my career. I’ll call her.” It hits me that he’s the only man, of the many in my life, that actually presses on matters that concern me. We stop at a stoplight and I turn to him. “I promise. And thank you for pushing. I know it’s because you want to look out for me.”

  “I owe you. Your input on this trial ha
s been invaluable.”

  The light turns and he motions us forward. A few steps past the intersection and we arrive at the coffee shop, and avoid talking about the trial while we wait in line. Instead, we talk about his parents. “Tell me more about the ranch your parents own.”

  “They have stallions. Do you ride?”

  “No,” I say. “But I’ve always wanted to.”

  “I’ll take you up there. We’ll figure out when and do it.”

  He wants to take me to his parents. “You want to take me to your parents?”

  His eyes soften. “Yes, Cat, I do. Just be prepared for a cranky married couple. And my brother, who rivals my sister in attitude.”

  “I’m used to brothers.”

  “You’ll like my sister.”

  “Does she work at the ranch?” I ask.

  “No. She’s an interior designer, but she only lives an hour from the ranch. She’ll show up if I show up.”

  It’s our turn at the register, and it’s not long until we have our coffee and we’re finishing the short walk to the courthouse. I stop him a block away. “You don’t need to walk in with me, Reese. Mr. Hotness gossip isn’t what you need right now.”

  “Cat—”

  I push to my toes, lean into him, and kiss him. “Please. Go on without me. And go Team Summer. Kick ass.”

  “Are you Team Summer, Cat?”

  “You had me the minute you cut in line and earned your temporary Mr. Arrogant Asshole title.”

  He laughs and kisses me again. “I’ll see you for lunch unless some hell breaks loose.”

  “See you at lunch.”

  “Call your agent,” he says, and starts walking.

  “Ex-agent!” I call after him, but he’s right. I need to call Liz.

  I glance at my watch, and it’s actually early. I have time to call her. I walk onward to the courthouse, and since the picketers have already started, I round the corner and sit on a bench. I punch the autodial for Liz and the moment is rather anticlimactic, since I get her voice mail. I text her: I’m headed into court. I’ll try and call you at lunch. I disconnect, place my phone on vibrate, and head inside. A few minutes later, I’ve claimed my spot in the courtroom and pull out my notebook, not sure if I did the right or wrong thing when I wrote that closing statement and read it to him.